


Wings of the Guardian

by LouRea (MementoVitae)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drabbles, Gen, Other, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MementoVitae/pseuds/LouRea
Summary: Drabbles to practice writing from Lucia's pov, play with some headcanons, and flesh out her relationships with the rest of the Devil May Cry cast.
Relationships: Dante & Lucia (Devil May Cry), Lucia & Matier (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

Matier had a mildly embarrassing tendency to speak on Lucia’s behalf.

It came from a good place—a leftover habit from when Lucia was young and often didn’t bother with the convention of speech. Matier would often end up acquiring some bauble Lucia had been silently pining for and she always knew which lessons Lucia understood and which she only said she understood. Her grip on exactly what Lucia felt and needed had prompted one of the first serious questions she could remember forming.

_“How do you always know what I’m thinking so well?”_

And Matier had stroked her hair and said _“It is because I love you, my dear. That is how I know even the things you do not say.”_

It was a sweet memory. One Lucia held close to her heart, even in the troubling moments when Matier perhaps spoke a little too freely on matters Lucia would have rather let sit unaddressed. But she found those words bittersweet at times. 

She knew Dante. Well enough to understand that he has always, from their very first introduction, been consumed. By regrets, by sadness, by _something_ whose full shape she would never be permitted to see. It was similarly obvious to her that for all the intensity of his preoccupation, he’d never planned to find an answer that brought him any happiness. He was a collection of so many traits, some feigned and some ingrained, that defied love any grip on him. Now that he had his brother back, it was clear as day that he had been starving for as long as she’d known him. For the company of the one other person who would understand his history and the nature of his existence implicitly.

Dante trusted her. But he didn’t know her. Lucia wasn’t sure he really knew any of the people he trusted the way they might know him. Love, even in its most mundane forms, was something Dante inevitably shied back from.

She knew all these things he did not say.

Because she loved him in a dozen equally futile ways.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn arrives the same as ever and Lucia feels in her chest that today will be a bad day. 

It's in the way her stomach drops while she crosses the space between her bed and bathroom. The way she leans over the sink with her mouth open, just in case. The porcelain is cold and her body is hot and foreign to her. A thing that belongs to someone else and she has merely awakened in it. Her name is Lucia. Daughter of Matier and ritual chieftain of Vie de Marli she is, but hers is an unsacred body named Chi, and Chi is one of dozens. The last of her sisters, devils by design.

Her back bows out and she heaves dryly into the waiting sink, a pattering of spit falling against the surface.

Eyes clenched, she presses her forehead to the mirror and feels sweat slip between her skin and the smooth, reflective surface. There have been other days like this. Many. Maybe she will vomit. Maybe she won't. There's no strength in her arms today, so she won't have the energy to try and scratch the branded X from her shoulder. Good. It never works anyway. There's only one thing that's necessary on these days. One thing she has to do to be sure that she is still Lucia. She grits her teeth impatiently as the minutes pass. Hurry. Hurry hurry, please, none of this is nearly as important as what must come next. Her stomach slumps begrudgingly back into position. The sweat dries and a clammy chill replaces it on her skin. She shivers, and weakly drops down to the rim of her bathtub. Being upright is too taxing, so she slumps into it and curls her knees up to her chest.

The only sound in the basin is the thump of her heart and her unsteady breaths. Hurry. Hurry! She makes a wretched, muffled noise into her own skin, frustrated yes, but so much more terrified than that. If it doesn't happen, what does that make her?

It's the terror, always, that bring the tears stinging to her eyes, and the shudder of relief that sends them falling as she curls tighter into herself and sobs. She doesn't know how many of these days there have been since she found out about herself. They exhaust her, but she can't find it in her to hate them. As long as these bad days come and unravel her, she is not a devil. 

Because devils never cry.


End file.
